Good times, good memories in Buhl Park

Over 75 friends and family members attended the memorial service hosted by Renee on May 9 in lovely, leafy Buhl park in Sharon/Hermitage/Hickory, Pennsylvania (you're never quite sure what city/township you standing in at any given time in those parts). This is the park where Leslie used to hang out with friends (and smoke pot) and where he told me, during my only visit prior to this one, he kissed his first girlfriend (or something like that); it's also where the Marenchins used to sled as kids. It was a blustery day, so, fortunately, the service was held in a pleasant stone building on the edge of the park, surrounded by trees.

Father Dayton, a friend of the Marenchins, kicked off the proceedings with a prayer or two (Leslie, the atheist, would have squirmed), followed by my long-winded recount of Leslie's life and achievements. Bill Evans, who grew up with Leslie and was practically a brother, and who Renee said essentially lived at the Marenchins, spoke about his long and close relationship with Leslie (that continued with hour- long telephone conversations and more recently a trip together to the Finger Lakes, during which Bill fished and Leslie sat in the boat and lectured). Bill also spoke about the "theatrical" experience of visiting with the Marenchins, and how constant and vociferous (if good natured) argument was the routine. Leslie's high school cohorts--Brian Passell and Bob Hoagland--stepped up next to share some of their personal memories of Leslie and the colorful Marenchin clan (all of them have the honor of having worked with (been enslaved by?) Mike Marenchin in his never ending quest to perfect the Marenchin estate and eventually the world). These boys were also among the regular attendants at Leslie's bedside during that formative six-month stay in a bodycast.

Tom Korman, a friend of Leslie's from their college days at Millersville, shared some of his experiences with Leslie (at school and as waiters at some wanna-be pub, sporting vests and bowlers over their respective afros.) He read from a letter Leslie had written to him from Rice, in his early graduate school days, expressing bemusement over the presence of a Baptist (!) in the philosophy department, and how he would quote scripture to him, tweak it, and argue with him about it. (Leslie, of course, enjoyed nothing more than pointing out hypocritical/contradictory/fallacious thinking.) The letter sounded like Leslie, and it was good to hear his subversive voice in our midst. (Father Dayton stood by stoically.)

An old family friend, Sherry O'Rourke--who Renee said "became our Shelly" after their sister Shelly died--talked fondly about Leslie, and how she had known him for most of his life.

After Father Dayton slipped in a couple more prayers, we recessed to a reception featuring, among other delicacies, stuffed cabbage, lots of stuffed cabbage.

Old family friend Andy Arendas opened his home to the die-hards afterwards. Leslie's friends from high school and college, and family and other friends, huddled around Andy's kitchen and patio swigging Miller High Life and sharing Leslie stories (the ones we couldn't tell in front of the priest), all presided over by that portrait of Leslie taken by Fernando Castro (featured on the blog). You can imagine how Leslie would have loved that party.

I should add that on the way to the service, Renee and I managed to visit the cemetery in Sharon to bury some of Leslie's ashes (those that remained after our sloppy dispersal in Houston) with his sister and parents. It wasn't grand: we stood in the drizzle while a teamster of sorts lowered the box into the muddy hole, and then, as we retreated to the car, buried it with a mini-backhoe. And while it was sad, Renee was comforted by the fact that Leslie is in some way back with his family. (With that said, we've held onto some of his ashes that we hope to distribute at several other choice spots. More on that later.)

Thanks to all who attended, participated in, or contributed in some fashion to a memorable memorial service.